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by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Minor Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 05:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19311994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: Dean swallows and turns to his friend with a bewildered look… because for the first time, he realizes that Seamus is wrong.He’s not sad because he’d wanted her: He’s sad because he’d never had her at all.





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [goodlife23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodlife23/gifts).



> For Goods, who demanded Jealous!Dean. Also wanted to churn this out before the end of Pride Month! :)
> 
> Please read and review! 
> 
> (Thanks to Liza and Eslon for looking this over!)
> 
> ((Also thanks to Mikey for the custom images.))

``````

Once upon a time, Dean had naively thought being chucked by Ginny Weasley would be the worst thing he’d experience this year.

He’d been miserable when it happened, when she’d finally called it quits… but he can’t say he’d been surprised. Ginny had been increasingly distant since Christmas hols and on more than one occasion she’d started a fight on purpose — much like the one where she’d chucked him. 

What _had_ surprised Dean, though, was that being chucked actually wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that a few weeks later, she’d moved on. Very publicly. Very excessively.

 _With him_.

Because now, _HarryandGinny_ (one word) are lying beneath a tree on a particularly glorious Saturday — a day that Dean finds particularly shitty.

He’d shrugged off revising in the common room because he hadn’t wanted to see _them_ ; he knows they’re fond of the couch. And the windowsill. And the rug near the fireplace. And the floor.

But Dean should have known better: Harry and Ginny haven’t kept their bloody hands off each other in a week. Why would today (of all days) be any different? Why would today give him _any_ modicum of relief? 

Dean’s empty stomach churns as he glares at their sprawled forms not twenty meters away. His charcoal pencil is gripped in his fist, but the tip has long since shattered on his sketch pad. He’d been drawing the lake, hoping for a glimpse of the squid, hoping for anything, really to take his fucking mind off of things.

But for some sick reason, he can’t stop watching the only thing he’d hoped to avoid.

He’d heard them arrive about five minutes ago, each utterly oblivious to the peace they’d been disturbing. _HarryandGinny_ (one word) might’ve been saying actual words as they’d relaxed beneath the tree, but Dean isn’t certain. Their dialogue had consisted of a weirdly flirty cadence punctuated with occasional giggles and snorts.

They’re quiet now, though, which is almost worse. Ginny’s lying on her back and Harry’s propped on his elbow. One of his hands is brushing her cheek, the other caressing her hip.

That’s not the worst part, though.

The _worst part_ is the dazed expression on Harry’s face. Or maybe it’s the way his eyes have clouded over. Or the way his lips are curved in a perpetual half-smirk as he gazes at Ginny like he can’t get enough… like he’s trying to savor this, to store it up, to remember everything.

Then without coordination, without a single spoken word, they lean towards each other… and just like that, they’re snogging again.

Dean groans and clenches the fist not holding the pencil. Didn’t take long, did it? 

He amends his earlier assumption: Snogging is much worse than silence… much, _much_ worse. Now Harry’s releasing a deep sound somewhere between a moan and a growl as Ginny pulls him closer, as her pale fingers grasp his tie. 

Harry comes up for air a second later, his chest heaving, his eyes even darker than before, but to Dean’s dismay, Ginny doesn’t seem to _need_ air; it’s like taking a break mid-snog was a necessity unique to their relationship.

 _HarryandGinny_ (one word) aren’t done, though — and Dean is really starting to doubt they’ll ever be. Harry may not be kissing her, but his hands have wandered. Without breaking eye contact, the fingers caressing her hip are now dipping below her waistband. Then, as if Harry _owns_ her, as if he’s been given permission to do so, the fucking _Chosen One_ pulls the tail of her shirt out, leans in, and starts kissing her again. 

And his hands don’t stop drifting. 

Dean seethes as Harry’s fingertips dance over the creamy expanse of her stomach, as Ginny arches into his touch, her head tilted back. He’s not close enough to decipher any sounds she’s making, but Dean can nonetheless infer these aren’t noises she’s _ever_ made with him.

All of this would have been bad enough, really... but then Ginny does something that truly takes the biscuit: She wraps her leg around Harry’s waist. While they’re snogging. _Horizontally._  

Dean's eyes narrow in contempt as acid crawls up his throat. _They’ve barely been dating a week!_  When _he_ and Ginny had been dating a week, she’d barely let him hold her hand. When _they’d_ been dating almost a _year_ , she’d flinched when he’d touched her waist — _over_ her clothes. 

But she has no problem letting Harry’s hands drift up her stomach, does she? No problem pressing herself against him, no problem ignoring the rest of the world and losing herself and—

_“Mate.”_

An exasperated voice rips him from Dean from his thoughts — and it’s a voice he’d recognize anywhere.

It’s also the voice of a person who’s told him off for doing this more than once; Dean scrambles into a sitting position, trying his hardest to pretend he hasn’t been caught doing _exactly_  this for the past week and a half.

He needn’t have bothered pretending, though, because Seamus knows him too well. Dean’s not sure how long he’s been standing there behind him, his hands stuffed in his pockets, a sympathetic look on his face… but he looks rather content back there, so perhaps it’s much longer than Dean’s realized.

“Mate,” Seamus repeats, shaking his head. “Why’re you torturing yourself?”

Dean heaves a sigh, a vein ticking in his jaw. “She’s a fucking hypocrite,” he snarls, fully aware that he sounds like a petulant child. 

He still can’t bring himself to answer the question, though. _Not yet_. His head is still swimming with memories of Ginny’s reluctant glances over her shoulder while they’d snogged, her halfhearted protests of _wandering eyes_ and _six brothers,_ her uncomfortable winces if he’d tried more than a peck in public...  

Seamus shuffles his feet, but doesn’t say anything. Dean appreciates that too, even though having his friend around is leaving him rather exposed. It's as if Seamus has lifted a sheet, revealed the man behind the curtain. Dean draws a breath that slithers down his throat, one that settles in his stomach, hollow and cold — and he dazedly wonders how it’s possible that burning ire has masked loneliness, all this time. 

Seamus clears his throat, drawing Dean’s attention from the writhing couple beneath the tree.  

“I know how badly you wanted her,” Seamus soothes, his eyes kind and warm. Then he sighs, his posture stiffening, and Dean knows that look anywhere: Seamus is bracing himself to share an uncomfortable truth. And like it or not, Dean _also_ knows he’s going to listen.  

“But mate,” Seamus starts again, this time with a hint of a plea. “She’s _moved on_. Maybe it’s best you do, yeah?”

A pause stretches between them — but in the span of a few beats, it’s like Dean’s heard a glass wall shattering, like the world has been colorized, like a missing puzzle piece has slid into place. Dean swallows and turns to his friend with a bewildered look… because for the first time, he realizes that Seamus is wrong.

He’s not sad because he’d wanted her: He’s sad because he never had her at all.

Perhaps Seamus has jarred him into noticing it. Or perhaps it’s been Harry’s wandering hands or his dazed look or Ginny’s inexplicable allowance of each of these.

But now, Dean now accepts — with astonishing clarity — that the intimacy he’d shared with Ginny Weasley had been incredibly brief, even if their relationship _hadn’t_. In between snogging and smiling and general pleasantries, he’d only gotten fleeting flashes of the chinks in her armor.

Dean had gotten soft smiles and flattered flushes and wide-eyed looks of surprise and breathy moans caught in her throat… but in retrospect, all of that had been akin to standing just above a volcano, one that can’t choose between activity and slumber. He’d gotten to feel the rumbling beneath his feet and the warmth glowing from the earth as angry red zigzags splintered and cracked across the barren landscape.

Like a fool, he’d just assumed she’d eventually crack.

Dean had spent a year telling himself that Ginny would let him in and trust him and confide in him; he’d convinced himself that the near-constant earthquakes were a good sign, that the churning lava under the dirt would bubble over and explode.

What he hadn’t counted on, though, was that Ginny'd never had any intention of losing control.

Not with him.

Dean shudders as a mixture of relief and horror washes over him. He’d gotten undeniably close to her light… but she’d never let him share it.

He swallows again and stares back at HarryandGinny (one word). They’re both private people — _very_ private people. Ginny’d emphasized moving slowly from their first bumbling days. She’d been cautious. Reticent. _Secretive_ , even. 

A delirious laugh slips through Dean’s lips; the whole situation is _so_ fucking ridiculous. Ron had interrupted them in an innocent snog — _once!_  —  but Ginny had spent the next six months hiding in dark corners and double-checking her surroundings before agreeing to do it again. 

Unbelievably, _Harry_ is even worse. This is the boy who’d spent the last six years ruminating in silence over everything from death to neglect. This is the boy who’d made a habit of quietly slipping out of the common room to fight Death Eaters and have midnight duels and go on some of the grandest, most dangerous adventures Hogwarts has seen.

And yet, here the two of them are… wrapped in each other, like they’ve never shared darkness, like there’s no difference between where his heart beats and where her soul stops.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. Really, he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t know what he’d had with Ginny… but they’d never had  _that_. They’d never had finishing sentences and staring into the depths of each other’s eyes and not giving a shite about touching in public. 

Dean’s never been that close with someone... never found himself lost in someone who’d filled in all the gaps, all the time. 

Well, except for Seamus.  _Of course._

He turns his head to look back at his mate. Seamus is peering at him warily, attempting to asses if he’s hurt his feelings. But he hasn’t… because he’s _Seamus._  

Dean replies with an affable shrug ( _Nah, mate, you’re probably right_ ) and Seamus shoots him a relieved grin ( _Good, you needed to hear it_ ), his white teeth glinting against the sun.

Seamus hadn’t made the quidditch team, but Dean doesn’t know why. He’s certainly built like a beater; he’s stocky and muscular, he’s lean and agile. The veins on his muscular forearms move in fascinating ways when he’s angry, when his cheeks are rosy and flooded with rage. Dean loves that quality about Seamus: He understands righteous indignation… and he’ll fight anyone for him. Dean also loves when he slips into bouts of Gaelic, his brow furrowed as he fires off unintelligible curses about someone’s mother.

Dean sighs and sets his sketch pad down. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not an idiot. He may have been slower on the uptake with the Ginny situation, but with Seamus— 

Dean bites his lip. Seamus is crossing his arms and staring at _HarryandGinn_ y (one word) in sympathetic disapproval — but now Dean realizes that he’s been playing it up this whole time. _Seamus_ doesn’t particularly care that they’re snogging everywhere: He cares that _Dean_ cares. 

Dean rips his head away, a gentle smile on his lips. Now more than ever, it’s pretty clear there’s been _something_ there. 

For quite a long time.

It’s something Dean really doesn’t want to label, something that scares him to admit, but now that he’s thinking about it — now that he’s thinking about _him_ — his stomach floods with warm reassurance, like he’s swallowed a mouthful of butterbeer. It’s only now, though, that this butter _beer_ also gives him butter _flies_.

And to be honest, Dean’s not sure what to do with _that_ , either.

Luckily Seamus seems to have his wits about him. He gestures towards the castle, and Dean rises to his feet. He brushes off his trousers and picks up his sketch pad, but this time, his eyes don’t go anywhere near _HarryandGinny_ (one word).

Instead, he and Seamus head inside, just as they always do — but this time, Dean finds familiarity in the routine. Their arms swing at their sides, but never touch. They flash each other wry smiles and raise their eyebrows and whisper things only meant for the other to hear. They talk about Dean’s dad and Seamus’ mum and lament that they’ve still got so much school left. 

They reach the entrance hall and Dean pauses, staring at his best friend. 

For the first time, he’s pleased that he and Ginny have broken up. He’s somehow glad, even, that  _HarryandGinny_ (one word) are together... because they’ve shown him the difference. They’ve illuminated the contrast. They’ve proven what’s in the past, given him a reference point for the future.  

Seamus turns to him with a soft smile, his sandy hair tousled in the breeze.

Dean doesn’t know what intimacy is, really… but he knows, without a doubt, that he shares it with _him_.


End file.
